


Curio

by tisonlyaname



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2017-12-08 14:25:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/762368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tisonlyaname/pseuds/tisonlyaname
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every man is a collector.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Curio

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this kink meme prompt: _I'd love to see a story where Will is distracted by a dog on a case (maybe he sees the animal chained up at the back of a house; maybe he's interviewing a witness who keeps yelling at his dog; etc.). I want Will to get distressed and Jack or Hannibal (even both, if author prefers) to do something about it._
> 
> Comments and critiques are, of course, appreciated.

It’s a yellow-sky summer, stale air and slow seconds. Fields bare themselves to the swelter, their cotton-rows fading, their black veins dry.

This is a strange American corner, with its dirt roads and cross-tie fences. It’s a world he never thought to visit... and yet Hannibal now sits in a sticky-seated car, still feeling the wheeze of an engine beneath him, the wince of old metal and older pistons. The sensation is not agreeable.

It’s also not avoidable.

Because-- 

Will is outside, stumbling through yet another farmhouse interview. It’s the fourth one today and the words are beginning to sag, strained by the heat, by their own awkward phrasing. Will is tired. Shadows gather beneath his eyes and a nervous shake betrays his hands. He doesn’t _want_ to be here. He doesn’t _want_ to speak. 

But... he does. 

He _does_.

The bravery would be commendable if it wasn’t wasted.

Because a woman-- _Katie_ , she called herself. _Named after the actress. Don’t know which one. Mama never could make up her mind_ \--stands at the door, sweat-damp and sneering. Red hair hangs across her shoulders; ash stains her teeth. She’s fifty-three and leather-skinned, a potential witness to a crime Hannibal cares nothing about: an arsonist, a brick-slayer, worthy of attention only because his latest fire killed seven.

It was an accident. Hannibal knows this and so does Will. They traded the truth over breakfast, eyes never meeting but notes exchanged on napkins: their criminal is pedestrian in all things; the deaths were not intended. 

Still-- Justice is required.

And justice, he’s discovered, is a series of questions and answers. 

How tedious. 

Especially since Katie knows nothing. 

She’s slurring out her responses. They’re not worth hearing, not worth the carbon they burn, but he still leaves his window open. He enjoys the weave of Will’s voice in the distance, the way it mimics a swallow in the dive. 

But swallows always rise and Will... He’ll fly soon enough. He just needs time.

And Hannibal--

Hannibal has that. 

He has _oodles_.

The interview finally ends and Katie shuffles back into her home. The screen door slams behind her. It’s a petty sort of echo.

Will doesn’t seem to notice. Instead he turns and steps off the porch, hopping once, twice down the concrete steps. His eyes are shuttered, but his lips are moving. The conversation is being dissected, the bone-sharp profanities erased, the veiny accusations tossed away. He only leaves the heart of her denials and those--

Those he consumes.

Because every man is a collector.

And Good Will, Sweet Will, collects the memories of others.

He's the prettiest thief Hannibal has ever met.

He’s also the most unpredictable... because he suddenly stops, frowns, pivots back toward the porch. His head tilts as he examines the dust, as if to count the particles. 

And then--

Then he _kneels_ , extends a hand toward the rickety dark.

Hannibal almost expects the shadows to reach back.

They don’t.

Instead a dog comes slinking out. It’s a broken beast, matted fur and careful gait, the thick twist of a rope at its neck. It has a retriever’s frame, but the belly is too thin and the tongue rolls out as if to taste the breeze. It’s thirsty. 

Will’s already moving toward it, body graceless against the ground, crawling. Soft, sad noises escape between his teeth. 

“It’s alright, girl. I won’t hurt you. I won't.”

And his stare is steady, steady, steady.

It takes but a moment for the dog to yield, to fold fully into Will. Hannibal can hear her whining. There’s blood flaked at the bottom of her paw. A whiskey bottle--one of many he can see shining beneath the house--is to blame.

The front door opens before he decides how to feel about this.

Katie stomps out, fresh cigarette blurring in her fingers. “What are you doing?” she demands. “I thought you were headin’ out?” 

“I was,” says Will, gaze still on the dog, arms curling like a shield. “Until I heard her.”

“What? She makin’ a fuss again? Dog’s always gotta be gettin’ into somethin’.” She takes a long drag. “No reason for you to still be on my property, though.”

“I wasn’t--” Will finally peeks up, but he doesn't look at _her_. He can't, Hannibal knows. Instead he studies the inevitable decay of the house, the broken glass and tilting beams. His rage is a compass but the needle always shifts. He lacks focus. 

That can be changed.

“I wasn’t--” Will tries again, pauses, shakes his head. “Your dog is hurt.”

Katie snorts, coughs when nicotine rattles in her throat. “She’s not _my_ dog. Belonged to my husband ‘fore he ran off. Just left her here for me to keep. Like I’ve got nothin’ better to spend my money on than food for that mutt.”

“It doesn’t look like you’re getting your money’s worth,” he snaps, social caution briefly lost. “She’s half-starved.”

“She’s lucky to get what she does,” spits Katie, angry now. She tosses down her cigarette and grinds her heel against it. “You’ve got no right to be judgin’ me. Just like you’ve got no right to be here. I answered all of your questions. You need to leave.”

“But she’s _hurt_.” 

The argument is almost enough to enchant -- such a simple, honest plea. His Will is a delight.

But Katie... 

Katie is not.

Because she's hurrying forward, reaching for the rope and wrenching it back. The dog is pulled from Will’s arms.

And his expression _wilts_. Distress etches its way through every breath, every blink. Hannibal can see the boy he once was (or perhaps still is). There’s anger in the veins, but it always turns to steam. 

He’ll change that. 

Later.

Now it’s time to intervene. 

He opens the door and steps out, straightens his cuffs when he stands. He moves toward the house then, slowly, slowly.

He doesn’t seek out Will. He instead stares at Katie.

She stiffens immediately, wary. “Who are you?” she calls. “More FBI?”

“Hardly,” he replies. “I'm just a concerned citizen.”

“Yeah? Concerned about what?”

“About how much you want for the dog.”

Her mouth goes slack, confused. “... What?”

“How much do you want for the dog?” he asks, calm. He can see Will in his peripheral, inching toward him, beside him, like it's his proper place. 

It is.

“She’s--” Katie finally rouses herself. “She’s not for sale.”

He quirks a brow. It’s safer than bearing his teeth. “I think you’ll find, my dear, that _everything_ is for sale. Especially when it’s not wanted.” He then draws his wallet from his pocket and pulls out a few crisp bills. Hannibal waves them at her. “This should be enough.”

Katie... hesitates, trying to count the total in her head, trying to determine how much cheap wine it will bring and if that’s worth the cost of losing.

Hannibal doesn’t wait for her to complete the equation. He doesn’t have the patience. “This is a much more elegant method than the alternative," he muses. "I _pay_ you for the dog; you _give_ me the dog; and we both avoid a messy scene with the local authorities. There’s so much paperwork involved with cases of animal cruelty. I have better things to do with my time, as I’m sure you do as well.”

_Three. Two. One._

It’s a quick reaction -- the way she drops the rope and snatches the money, cradling it against her chest like a china-doll. She slides back, glaring at them both, as if she’s not to blame, as if they’re somehow guilty. “Fine,” she hisses. “Stupid thing’s all yours. No skin off my nose.”

 _Well..._

“Take the mutt and get off my property,” she snarls. “Right now. Before I change my mind.”

It's an empty threat, but Hannibal still offers a placating hand, murmurs, “Don't worry. We’re leaving.”

And he watches as Will bounds forward and gathers the dog in his arms, carries her to the car, fumbles with the backdoor handle before finally slipping inside. The two huddle there together, a pair of matchstick hounds.

_Give a dog a master. Give a dog a bone._

Hannibal follows, claiming the driver’s side for his own and settling behind the wheel. There’s a moment, heavy, anxious, before--

“Thank you.”

The words are quiet. The meaning is not.

And Will...

Will is smiling, as if he’s forgotten how, as if he’s just learning. It's a timid gesture from a mighty, mighty heart.

It’s enough.

Because every man is a collector.

And Hannibal is now collecting strays -- his to find, his to keep, his to feed. 

And there _will_ be feeding.

Later.

Soon.

“You’re welcome,” he says and they drive away.


End file.
